Dreaming
by enigste1
Summary: A look into the mind of Don Eppes. Oneshot.


Disclaimer: I have no affiliation with the television show Numb3rs. I do not profit from this work.

Dreaming

Don Eppes sat on the leather couch in his living room, sipping slowly at a bottle of beer. There was an old black and white baseball movie on the television screen across from him, but truth be told, he wasn't seeing it. His hopes to unwind and de-stress from a long, arduous day at work seemed like a child's fantasy as scenes from cases, conversations, and daily experiences vied for attention in his mind. He sighed, shifting position on the cushions, and tried to immerse himself in the film.

It was pointless. No matter how hard he tried to focus on the story, it was only a matter of seconds before his mind wandered.

Growling wordlessly, Don picked up the remote from the couch cushion beside him and snapped the television set off. Downing the rest of his beer, he stood and walked into the kitchen. He put the empty bottle in the case with its fellows and headed for the bedroom, peeling his clothes off as he went. As he walked through, he tossed his clothes into the hamper and entered the bathroom. He turned on the shower and, as steam gathered, considered his reflection in the mirror.

Certainly, an attractive man stared back at him, if one didn't notice the small downward lines around the mouth. Or the tiny ones between his eyebrows. Evidence of a career of seeing people and situations at their worst, and exercising tremendous self-control.

Stepping into the shower, Don let the hot water stream over his head and back, savoring the sensation as the water warmed his tired body and eased the tension in his shoulders. He stood, motionless, until the spray began cooling before soaping up and rinsing off. He turned the faucet off with a sharp flick of the wrist, and stepped out onto the cool linoleum. Grabbing a towel, he rubbed himself down as he made his way back into the bedroom.

Tossing the towel onto the end of the bed, Don slid between the cool cotton sheets and pulled the covers up to his chin. He closed his eyes and willed sleep to come. Instead images tumbled through his fatigued brain, almost as though falling over one another in an effort to get his attention.

Children – missing, exploited, murdered. People robbed of their savings, their trust or their lives. Adults breaking down into tears as they're told their world has been shattered into a million meaningless pieces and, by the way, can they think of anything that would help in the investigation?

Don sighed again and rolled onto his side, squeezing his eyes tightly shut and willing the images away. The difficulty came whenever one of those people turned beseeching eyes to his own and begged wordlessly for reprieve. Desperate hope that what he had just said wasn't true. Inside, he felt their pain acutely. He often wanted nothing more than to turn back the clock to the point where he stepped into their lives, and walk away. How many times had he stopped himself just before reaching out a comforting hand, knowing that that simple gesture would be counter-productive, no matter how much it would be welcome?

His father called him a 'hard-ass', his brother said he was 'detached'. The truth was, he was numb. Daily he fought down the natural reactions to the situations he witnessed. The clenched teeth, the hard swallow – they were almost second nature to him now. To let the emotions show would be lethal in his profession.

Don rolled onto his other side and made an effort to relax. This was how it went, every night. A conscious effort to shut out reality and catch a few hours sleep at least. Usually. Some nights he gave it up as a lost cause, dragging himself out of bed to make a cup of coffee and get dressed. If he didn't have to work the following day, he might have something stronger than one beer before he went to bed. Anything to speed the un-knotting of muscles and blur the scenes in his mind. He drew the line at sleep aids. He knew some agents took depressants like Valium to help chase away the horrors of the job, but not Don Eppes. He figured if it came down to that, it was time to throw in the towel.

Turning onto his back, he stared up at the ceiling. His last case clamoured for attention. He allowed the scenes to run through his weary mind and analysed each one, as he knew he had to. When the last horrific detail was satisfactorily filed away in its own cubbyhole, Don realised he'd been staring at the same spot overhead for more than an hour. He flung an arm across his eyes and tried desperately to calm his now-racing heartbeat.

The phone on his bedside table rang once, twice. Grabbing up the receiver, Don said, "Eppes."

Glancing at the clock beside the phone, he groaned inwardly. Four fifty in the morning.

"I'll be there in twenty-five minutes."


End file.
